“We want to hear music!”  The youngest has somehow pried my Swiss-Army phone out of my pocket and immediately the whole crew is present.  They realize, as do I, that this little piece of equipment is not about making and receiving phone calls, but is important simply for the entertainment factor.  Many days, the  request is for photos, but today the oldest, since last week a mature five-year old, is asking to see and hear one of the videos contained within this amazing hand-held package of technology.

The correct selections made, buttons pushed, and the two by three inch screen positioned for optimal viewing by five people, we begin the video.  For today’s viewing and listening pleasure: the Christmas Brass, featuring a hodge-podge of aunts, uncles, and a grandfather playing (or attempting to play) various and sundry carols and popular titles.  The performance is not spectacular, the technical ability of the camera person (in this case, the Lovely Lady) a bit inexpert, with the occasional finger over the lens and a little shake now and then, but the children are oblivious.  They sing along with “Jingle Bells”, periodically calling out a person’s name as they recognize them on the screen and then they yell out, almost in unison, “Another one!” when the current selection reaches its termination.  All in all, a fairly nondiscriminatory crowd, and to my way of thinking, the epitome of music lovers.

You see, these youngsters haven’t yet learned to dislike disparate types of music.  They’re equally at ease with children’s songs and classical music, cowboy crooners and rock divas.  They will bounce around the room to Bing Crosby, just as easily as to Garth Brooks or the New York Philharmonic playing Rachmaninoff.  To start to object to diverse genres of music, they need an adult’s touch.  We teach them to dislike sounds that are foreign or objectionable to our ears, just as our parents and teachers indoctrinated us.  Oh, we don’t always do it with words.  Many times, all it takes is for us to consistently change the radio tuner when that type of music to which we object begins to play.  If we constantly reject operatic singers who make their way into our living room via the airwaves, they understand that opera is inferior music.  If we repeatedly choose pop vocal music over anything else, they begin to see that this is better than other options.

And, what of peer pressure?  Granted, they will have an inordinate amount of that as they grow, but those children have had their musical worlds narrowed by adults and peer pressure also. In the end, the types of music youngsters choose will greatly depend on what they hear and learn in their early years and how we deal with the entire problem of peer pressure. 

Am I suggesting that we not have input in the content, that we allow these young malleable minds to be shaped by whatever medium happens to grab their attention?  Obviously not!  What I am suggesting is that we guide the process, while allowing a diversity of styles, yes even aiding the process by being sure to be diverse in our own musical listening habits.  I know I haven’t entirely succeeded in doing this in the past, because like all other human beings, I’ve been taught, and prodded, and shoved into the mold preferred by those who influenced me.  I do attempt to back off from my strong objections to, say, Hip Hop, when discussing music with the younger generation.  (Of course, you know this is not music!)  The strong caveat I offer to this philosophy of musical styles is that in vocal music, content matters.  For some reason, the idea of censorship is anathema to many, but garbage is garbage and has no place in the rearing of children.  The context of my  subject is the music itself, but don’t believe for a moment that I propose that we allow our children’s minds to be filled with the trash that passes for art within most of the popular genres of music today.  When our kid’s minds are filled with evil and lewd words, can those same types of thoughts and actions be far behind?  The Bible warns us that “…bad company corrupts good morals”, and I’m fairly sure that those MP3 players could be described as pretty constant company.

I’ve listened this evening to several different styles of music, each song recommended by a different friend, each one in its own way a joy and a benefit to the listener.  From the classical, to the country, to the Christian rock songs I heard, each one evoked a spark of enjoyment and was well done by the artist.  How dull and drab would be our world if we lost this diversity of styles and only had a single, sterile genre of music to listen to and be influenced by.  Give me the wide-open world of the child any day, with unlimited options and untarnished hearing.

Of course, they could choose better musicians than those old broken down horn-blowers, but that will come with time…

“Music is perpetual and only the hearing is intermittent.”
(Henry David Thoureau)

These days, I’m trying to walk the thin line between personal rights and being hospitable, that verge that separates personal space from people who need me.  Oddly enough, I’ve found that as the years have piled on, two divergent attitudes have developed inside me.  I have a strong desire to be left alone in whichever place I choose to settle, free from outside entanglements.  At the same time, I find myself more emotionally attached to family and friends, with reminders of family interactions or old pictures that elicit fond memories being enough to bring tears at times.  How can these two very strong and presumably opposing mindsets coexist inside one person?

Once more, I’m reminded that most of life is like that.  We want to do one thing and find ourselves doing the other.  Paul the Apostle had the problem, although arguably in an area which is a bit more weighty than my shallow issue.  He said, “Those things I want to do, I don’t do.  Those things I hate, I find myself doing.”  Like Paul, all our lives, we struggle to do the right thing.  The difficulty in my current dilemma is that it’s not about right and wrong, just about two different things that both seem really important.

I remember a conversation with my father years ago.  Some of his friends were angry to find out that he often turned off the phone at home, making it impossible to reach him.  His reaction?  “I put that phone in for my convenience, not theirs.  I can certainly turn it off anytime I want.”  Now, I don’t want you to think my Dad is an insensitive jerk, because he is definitely not that.  At eighty-plus years old, he still pastors a church and unselfishly keeps a daily schedule that puts me to shame, rising long before the sun to study, so that he can be available to anyone who needs him later in the morning, afternoon, and evening.  I do have to laugh, because his phone is never turned off now.  When he leaves his office, he is careful to forward all his calls to his cell phone, never out of touch with those who need to find their pastor.

I think of that conversation frequently now, though.  I am never away from contact, either by phone, or email, or text.  I have to keep a card in the Rolodex at the store so I can give the correct answer to the question, “How do I contact you?”  Cell, business, home, toll-free, and fax numbers all are near at hand, with the devices functioning continuously.  Daily all around me, phones ring, buzz, and play popular tunes, with customers holding up a hand to stop our conversation and turning their attention to the people in their life with whom they cannot break contact.  While I’m describing products, texts are being sent back and forth, my sales pitch only a small part of the information flow these folks are experiencing simultaneously.

Is it any wonder I want to yell, “Stop the merry-go-round!  I want off!” frequently?  The source of my need for solitude is the incessant barrage of communication, the constant stimulation of my brain with no let up.  The need for separation from the “madding crowd” becomes absolute.  We are not made for constant activity and conversation, not suited for the frenzied pace that modern life demands.

Balance is a good thing.  We need people, both family and friends.  We also need time away.  I’ve always loved that the Bible tells us to be still.  There are also plenty of instructions in there for actions, but we need time to detox as well.  The poisons of frenzy and urgency need to be cleansed away with the clear, cool water of re-creation, being refreshed and put back together.  Just as we have ministry to perform, we have the need to be ministered to.  But, not for too long.  If the being still becomes a way of life, the balance gets off that direction too and we’re of little use to those who need us.

I’ll keep heeding the two dichotomies, being there for the people who need me, but swerving out of the fast lane frequently to the side roads where I can putter along.  Both are amazingly rewarding when the proportion is right.  Who knows?  I may even start turning off all the phones once in awhile, too!

  
“You who seek an end of love, love will yield to business: be busy, and you will be safe.”
(Ovid~Ancient Roman poet)

“Snow tonight…Is that going to be the subject of your blog?”  the Lovely Lady asked sweetly.  My immediate and unpremeditated retort was, “Not on your life!”  Later, as I worked in the cold taking down the last of the Christmas lights from the gutter, an action prompted by fear of a repetition of last year’s sliding snow which destroyed the string of bulbs along with the mounting clips, I further resolved to ignore the falling white stuff in my nightly verbiage.  Again, as I sat in my recliner, with the gas fireplace roaring and snuggled under a blanket (wearing a sweater) to keep out the chill, I remained resolute.  Winter is the enemy.  I will not back down.  I will not waste time and words on this despicable season.  I have to endure it, but I will not acknowledge its power over me.

Of course, if you believe that I’m not going to write about snow, in the words of the incomparable Bugs Bunny (who stole them from the inimitable Red Skelton), “He don’t know me vewy well, do he?”  Certainly, I’m going to write about snow!  I’ve learned long ago that ignoring a disagreeable situation doesn’t make it any better.  Unlike my classmate from elementary school, a stout young man, I won’t hide behind a sapling covering my eyes and saying, “I can’t see you, so you can’t see me.”  A few winters have come and gone in my life and the best I can say of them is that after they come, they go.  But, they do go…

As a child, I always loved the idea of a real winter.  South Texas, where I was raised, didn’t seem to know the meaning of winter.  One or two heavy frosts in the season was equivalent to a mini-Ice Age there.  Snow was a fantasy we could only envision in our wildest imaginations.  It was only as a young adult in Arkansas that I first encountered a real snowfall and recreation in the wonderful white stuff.  Sledding, inner tubing, even finding a cardboard box to ride down hillsides in–these activities normally experienced by most in their juvenile years, I did for myself the first time as a 20 year old.  I loved snow!

Where it all went horribly wrong was the next spring.  The Lovely Lady (then just a girl herself), was involved in an event in a town about 140 miles away.  We made arrangements for me to meet her there, but the night before I was to leave, a heavy spring snow fell from the sky.  The state police issued warnings.  No one should travel if they didn’t absolutely have to.  I absolutely had to, so I left the next morning with enough money in my pocket for gas, an inexpensive meal, and lodging for one night.  About two thirds of the way to my destination, traveling about the same speed as other traffic, I felt my tires let go of the pavement and before I knew it, I was into the median, in mud and snow about a foot deep.  I tried every trick I knew, but I was stuck fast.  Walking along the road to get help, a tow truck, the driver “trolling” for unfortunates like me, stopped and the “Good Samaritan” asked if he could “help”.  Of course he could help!  Fifteen minutes later, the car was on the pavement and I was fifty dollars poorer.  I’m not sure I call that help!  Well, at least I was ready to move again.

I took off once more, getting a few miles down the road, only to feel the wheels turn loose again and I was headed into the median, seemingly for a repeat engagement.  Just one thought went through my head as I started into the deep snow…”I don’t have fifty dollars left in my pocket!”  With that in mind, I powered along through the mud and snow, never slowing, fishtailing my way back onto the highway.  All this, while passing stunned motorists who were intelligent enough to go slowly on that icy section of highway and could only stare agape at this young fool from South Texas who was obviously touched in the head.  Needless to say, for the rest of the trip I crawled along like the newbie I was and reached my destination without further episodes.

I think that was the start of my descent down the long, slippery slope to distaste of all things winter-y.  Don’t ask me to go snowboarding or skiing.  I will refuse.  No treks through the icy forest, no visits to the snow covered mountains.  Even tonight, my brain is working overtime trying to imagine ways I can finagle a couple of months off from the music store to find my way back to my old stomping grounds, just for the winter.  I don’t want to stay there.  I just want to camp out until the ambient temperature here hovers somewhere above the sixty degree mark and not anywhere near the bone-chilling readings which are forecasted for the next couple of nights.

One friend noted yesterday that spring is only ten weeks away.  I’m praying that she has miscalculated and it’s really just a few days…Otherwise, it looks like the winter grumpies are here to stay awhile.

“The more it snows (tiddely pom), 
The more it goes (tiddely pom),
The more it goes (tiddely pom),
On snowing.
And no one knows (tiddely pom),
How cold my toes (tiddely pom),
How cold my toes (tiddely pom), 
Are growing.”
(Winnie the Pooh from The House at Pooh Corner~A.A.Milne)

spp

The advertisement said that they were auctioning off a John Deere lawn tractor.  I was in love with the idea of owning a riding mower.  Well, I was 18, and as long as I was living in my parents’ house, it was going to be my job to mow the lawn.  And, I was tired of pushing a mower around that acre and a half.  I heard you could get used equipment for a lot less at these estate auctions, so I went, hopeful of bringing home a bargain.  When the auction was over, three hours later, I brought home an old recliner and a small bookcase in the back of the car.  No John Deere riding mower.  Well, what did you expect?  It was an auction.

I have been intrigued with auctions for most of my life.  When I was really young, Dad would take us to the livestock auction once in awhile and we’d watch the old farmers bid and we’d admire the cattle, pigs, and other miscellaneous beasts.  I don’t remember much about how it happened, but I do remember coming home with Goldie, a sweet old goat.  She was supposed to give milk and be bred, but she was never good for much more than being fed and watered.  Never gave milk, never had a kid. But, what did you expect?  It was an auction.

After my experience at the auction when I wanted to buy the lawn tractor, I stayed away from auctions for awhile.  But, right after I married the Lovely Lady, I saw an ad for an auction in our town and went to see if there was anything which would be useful for furnishing our little house.  I was looking for a sofa and love seat.  A few hours later, I came home with a leaky aquarium and a non-functioning blender.  Didn’t need either one.  Never used either one.  What did you expect?  It was an auction.

After other similar experiences, I’ve finally decided that I don’t do well at auctions.  The first rule of auctions is that you must know what you’re bidding on.  The second rule:  know your limit.  Decide ahead of time what the item is worth and don’t bid more than that.  Besides the fact that I couldn’t stick with the first rule, I certainly couldn’t follow the second rule because what makes auctions successful is the competitive nature of the activity.  The bid is entered and for a moment the item is yours.  The next thing you know, someone else has stolen your thingummy right from under your nose!  You can’t take that lying down, so you bid again.  Higher and higher, little by little approaching your limit, until there you are, right at the price you promised you wouldn’t go over.  But, the opponent has once again taken what was rightfully yours and for only one dollar over your limit.  Two dollars won’t break you!  So, you bid again, only to find that once you’ve exceeded your limit, it gets easier and easier to surpass it, with each successive bid.  Before you know it, you own the whatchamacallit (which you really didn’t want and absolutely don’t need) and have paid an astronomical amount!  I don’t do well at auctions.

A few of my friends and I used to go to a local consignment auction on Friday nights, just for fun.  One Friday evening, one of these friends decided that he needed a refrigerator and could get one for a good price while at the auction.  He looked them over and picked out the one he wanted.  Still unsure, he made the mistake of believing the auctioneer’s repeated promise: “working all the way” (everything in the auction was working all the way) and bought himself a beautiful, non-working refrigerator.  When he tried to return it, the staff at the auction pointed to the signs hanging all around the smoke-filled interior of the auction barn…the ones reminding you to “Buy at your own risk.  All items sold as is, where is.  Absolutely no returns.”  But, the staff suggested, it would be fine if he wanted to run the refrigerator through the auction again.  Sure they’d collect the commission again, but they could sell it!  They did one time before, remember?

Auctions have been a continuing life-lesson for me.  I’ve learned a lot about myself and my lack of self-discipline.  I’ve learned that putting myself in that kind of competitive situation only makes my common sense disappear into thin air, to be recovered at a later time, when I’m sadder but wiser.  Fortunately, these life lessons have come at a relatively inexpensive cost.  Many don’t learn the lesson until they’ve been defrauded of huge sums of money, all because they were sucked into the competition and didn’t make sure of the merchandise before it was purchased.

Come to think of it, much of life is like the auction.  Promises are made, which no one can be compelled to keep.  The price paid for those empty promises is much too high and frequently, the merchandise is faulty, even fake.  Most of us have jumped at those empty, wasteful opportunities at some point in our lives, only to repent of the venture, often too late.  Easy money, easy love, easy life.  All are falsehoods, with a price tag we cannot afford and a result that is incredibly inferior to the promised experience.  Yet, we rush headlong into the competition, confident of winning, assured of happiness awaiting us at the end of the bidding.  Life is littered by such experiences, which mar the journey, but too frequently the hard lessons are forgotten, and we leap at the next such opportunity, only to repeat the outcome.

Meanwhile, I keep getting these ads for auctions of music stores going out of business.  I’ve been thinking that I should go and buy some of the great instruments they list, but I’m pretty sure all I’d come back with is a box of guitar picks and a couple of junk guitars.  What else would I expect?  It is, after all, an auction…

“If somebody brings them, we’ll auction them.  We’ve got a license to sell pigs too, but we don’t.  They’re too messy and smell too bad.”
(Curtis Barfield~ Georgia auction owner)

I made a new friend tonight!  Well, I think I did.  The message I received said, “So & So has accepted your friend request.”  That means I’ve got a new crony, a new sidekick, right?  I’m still struggling with this.  Is this really the way friendship works?  I find the name of someone I knew years ago and click on the link which invites me to “add as friend”.  And, then I wait.  Not exactly on pins and needles, but I just gave someone the opportunity to reject me.  Can I tolerate it if they don’t want me in their friends list?  Do I really want to give them that power over me?  As time passes and no response is received, is this cause to be saddened or depressed?  Have I really been rejected, or is this just someone who never checks their account?  It’s a release when the message finally arrives.  I breathe a sigh of relief and send a message thanking them for their magnanimity.  After all, they’ve just given me access to a part of their life and I to them.  We’re Friends!

Again, I ask.  Is this the way it works?  Wouldn’t it be better if we could have the option to be Facebook acquaintances?  Honestly, many of the folks in my “friend” list could more accurately  be placed in that category.  I want to keep a relationship with them, but we’re never going to be best buds.  We’ll do the online equivalent of the nod or wave to acknowledge each other’s existence, just as I would if I met someone on the street, commenting on happy occasions and also on sad ones, but we’ll not be close.  We’ll not actually be “friends”.

Don’t get me wrong.  I really enjoy Facebook.  It has given me a chance to make contact with many people who had dropped out of my life, people who I enjoy knowing.  I count it a privilege to have grown up with many of them, but even as children, we weren’t bosom buddies.  We shared common experiences in school or church and have a history in each other’s lives.  I wouldn’t trade my past with them for anything and I’m grateful for the means to reconnect.  That said, true friendship normally runs a little deeper.  And, you don’t become friends with the click of a computer key on one end of the Internet and a reply on the other end.

The gift of true friendship is a rare one.  It is a gift and not something you request, as you would with a shopping list or a Christmas list.  Friends gravitate to each other for various reasons, but we stay friends because we share a bond, a love for each other that won’t be broken by time, or distance, or age.  There is a Proverb in the Bible that warns us that a man with many friends often comes to ruin.  Then it tells of the kind of friend that I want, one who sticks closer than a brother.  But, don’t think this is about someone who never leaves your side physically.

When I talk about true friends, I don’t necessarily mean people who are geographically close.  I don’t even mean that we have to have frequent communication.  I have one friend, with whom I grew up, who comes to visit from his home eight hundred miles away once every four or five years and I visit him just about that often too.  We don’t talk on the phone constantly or send emails even frequently, but when we get together, our friendship is unchanged from 10, 20, even 30 years ago.  We laugh, talk, even cry together, with no sense of discomfort, no reticence to speak openly about the things that close friends talk about.  We didn’t find this relationship by clicking on an icon (we’re not even Facebook friends), and our sense of closeness isn’t compromised by absence or lack of constant contact.  True friendships last.  They transcend the miles and the years, and they overlook the changes that inevitably come in our lives.

I’m not advocating for boycotting social media, not even wanting to slander it.  I am suggesting that we need to be sure we understand the important, even essential relationships in our lives and not cheapen them by an imitation, blowing-kisses kind of connection.  I’ll continue to click on the “request friend” button, but I’ll not be fooled into thinking that a friendship can be achieved as cavalierly as  that.

Give me a hand-shake and a bear-hug from an old friend and I’ll be content.   

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little. “How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety-nine.”
Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said.
(A. A. Milne~The House at Pooh Corner)

The wonder in her eyes lit up the room.  The young lady, all of eight years old, received a new guitar for Christmas, so this week, it was off to the music store for an instruction book.  Her dad asked the location of the books with little interest in his voice and demeanor.  For him, this was just another visit to another store; money would change hands and he would be able to get back to his own diversions.  As I led the way to the rack of books though, the little lady’s glance swept over the column of relatively homogeneous books to rest on the bright pink volume about halfway up.

“Wow, look!  A girl’s guitar book!  I want this one!”  We opened the book and talked about the different features and particulars of interest only to adults and I suggested the possibility of other options, including DVDs and some more traditional books, but she was transfixed by the idea of a book for her!  This book was for girls!  And, it was going to teach her how to play the guitar!  In the end, her enthusiasm convinced her parents more than I ever could have, silver-tongued salesperson though I may be (or not).

The choice made, she continued through the store, exclaiming about guitars hanging on the walls and the sets of drums at just the right height to catch her eye (and imagination).  My jaded attitude, effected by too many complaints and too few really excited musicians, faded into a dim memory in just moments.  As I said, she lit up the room.  When she had completed her exploration of the store, she headed for the counter with a question for her mother.  “Mama, should I pay for the book myself?”,  was her query, asked in a voice that told anyone listening that she would be happy to do it.  Instead, her mom paid for the book and the little family went on their way, leaving a little sunshine behind.

In my mind, I stepped back 24 hours to the same basic situation.  The little family pulled into the parking lot, but the teenage son made it into the front door before his dad, carrying a violin.  “Before my dad gets in here, I wanted you to know, I don’t want to buy anything expensive.  I tell him one time that I might like to play a fiddle and he buys one for me for Christmas!”  The exasperation in his voice was unmistakable.  Before he could say any more, his dad and little brother stepped through the front door.  “He needs a book and some help,” came the gruff voice of the gift-giver.

For the next fifteen minutes, I gave some instructions on bow care and tuning, along with actually tuning the violin, the young man looking at me and rolling his eyes every time Dad wasn’t looking.  I suggested a DVD which was less expensive than the book he looked at first, so he snatched it from my hand, tossing it on the counter.  “You paying for this?” he demanded of his father, only to be reminded that he had his own Christmas money.  Sullenly, he started to fork over the cash and his father headed out the door with a ringing cell phone.  The door wasn’t completely closed when the young man started again.  “How do you like that?  He buys me this stupid thing and then makes me pay to learn to play it!”  The griping continued for a few more moments until Dad came back in wondering what was taking so long.  Out went this family, sucking a good bit of the oxygen from the room with them.  Some of the grumpiness I thought I had lost over my week of a working vacation washed back over me.

I’m not sure if the little girl will make it to Nashville in her lifetime, but I’m confident that her guitar is going to make some music.  She’s going to enjoy it, as least as long as her interest stays active.  And that’s what I love about what I do!  The poor violin, on the other hand, is sure to languish in the case, being dragged out only when the young man is forced to it, either by guilt or by threat of punishment.  I didn’t even enjoy the sound of the cash register as the sale was rung up for this one.

There’s probably a moral to the story, but for me, it’s just a reminder that we’re all different.  We don’t fit the same mold and it doesn’t make any sense to try and make everybody adapt to it.  Not everybody who walks through my door is excited about making music, in much the same way that I don’t want to learn counted cross-stitch, just because I venture into Hobby Lobby occasionally.

Communication is a great gift, too often forgotten in the rush to get on with life.  And, it involves both talking and listening.  I hope that I will one day discover which one to do at the right time.  For now, just to clarify…If you buy me that cross-stitch kit I once said was “interesting”, I’m not paying for any instructions or thread myself!

“Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged.”
(Colossians 3:21 KJV)